


Where The Road Parts

by spacemonkey



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canonical Character Death, M/M, Post-Season/Series 05 Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:40:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25242565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemonkey/pseuds/spacemonkey
Summary: Bobby said that he was home now. For Dean, it was all he had left.(Set directly after 5x22)
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Kudos: 9





	Where The Road Parts

**Author's Note:**

> This was written and published in 2010, immediately after Season 5 aired as a response to two prompts: places in Bobby's house Dean remembers fondly, and the line "It's easy. You put your hand on my shoulder, I put my hand on your waist, and then we go one-two-three." I decided to give it a rewrite, make it shinier and repost. Hopefully, it's turned out okay!

His watch read past two and the keys were in the ignition, waiting to be turned. A part of Dean was itching to take off, go someplace else, watch the headlights bounce off the road. To keep driving until he lost his mind and kept a smile on his face. But truthfully, he didn’t know what he wanted, and that was the main thing keeping him from turning the key.

Still, he sat for a good half an hour, until Bobby opened the front door and just stood there without the porch light on, waiting and knowing. Dean wondered what Bobby would do if he said _fuck_ _it_ and drove off right then and there, his arm hanging out the window, middle finger extended the entire way. Shouting something stupid like _fuck authority_!

It was the sort of crap that Hollywood would make, that Dean would mock and be jealous of. He pictured Bobby chasing him through the dark with a shotgun until he couldn’t run anymore. And while that was probably the most extreme version and the least likely, it was enough to force a tired chuckle from Dean and push him straight out of the car and back towards the house.

Bobby didn’t say anything, just gave him a pat on the shoulder before leaving him standing next to the couch, apparently confident that he wouldn’t try to run off again.

“This is your home, Dean,” Bobby had said earlier when they had gotten back from Stull Cemetery. It was something Dean couldn’t really dispute any longer, tired as he was.

He settled on the couch, a sense of unease stirring within. It was because of him, that feeling, not anything else. There on the couch, Dean waited for heavy footsteps until he felt sick in the stomach. It was because of him.

He could hear Bobby rustling around in the kitchen. For the first time in what felt like for-fucking-ever, the world seemed still. Dean didn’t know what to make of that, and when he heard a noise that sounded like the beat of wings, it was hard to believe it was the wind.

“Cas?”

No response came, yet Dean waited until he was certain he was alone before making his move, knowing sure as hell that he couldn’t sit there a moment longer.

He wandered downstairs and up, taking it all in until he ended up right where he started, his fists balled at his sides as he looked out the window.

He was home at Bobby’s. It was all he had left, apart from his memories.

That wasn’t good enough for Dean.

* * *

When he’d been maybe two months shy of facing the music, Dean had found himself sitting with a beer in his hand on the hood of a car that had seen better days. It wasn’t the best place to be at Bobby’s, not by a long shot, but it was somewhere. There had been dust on his jeans and grease staining his fingers, and he’d drunk his beer and stared at the sky. Like you do when you’re that close to meeting your maker.

Bobby had joined him when he was on his third, holding a six-pack with a look that suggested Sam would never find out. During the brief silence that followed, Dean had figured he should say something profound, or at the very least, anything at all. But like always, Bobby had gotten there first.

“Shut up and drink your beer.”

Sometimes, Dean found it was best not to argue. So he hadn’t. He’d stayed there on his sorry ass and done what he was told until they had run out of beer. Sam, of course, had known immediately what they’d been up to when Dean had stumbled into the house a few hours later with a grin as weary as anything.

The table had been covered with books, some opened, others still dusty in their piles. If there was any object in Bobby’s house that Dean had known he wouldn’t miss, it was that damn table. And Sam sitting under dull light behind it, looking at Dean like he was the reason all the puppies in the world had lost their charm.

That look, those pile of books, and the goddamn headache that was sure to follow? Nope, he wouldn’t miss it in the slightest.

Except that he would.

* * *

  
Dean had this theory, this thought in the back of his mind, that one day he would wake up and the world wouldn’t suck anymore. There would be smiles all round, Sam by his side, Bobby across from him and Cas laughing like he meant it as Dean held a beer in his hand and pointed to each of them, saying, “I had a real bad dream, Auntie Em, and you and you and you were there.” And it would go on like that, a whole re-enactment while Sam shook his head and grinned before finally interrupting.

“We get it, Dean.”

It was something that would never happen, Dean knew. More of a crazy wish than anything, a niggling voice coming from a place he just couldn’t reach. But it was something he wanted to hold on to, until it was pried from his cold fingers.

* * *

There was this guy. This angel, actually. But Dean had still been weird about calling him that, because it _was_ weird. No, it was a freakin’ nightmare to his sanity, so Dean just called him Cas.

It had been late at night in Bobby’s kitchen when they’d met for the second time, a get-together as shit stirring as anyone ever could have hoped for. Yet once it was over, Dean had found himself with this feeling he just couldn’t shake, no matter how hard he’d tried. He’d tossed and turned, then drank his fair share before finally giving up and heading back into the kitchen to wait for another tête-à-tête.

Disappointment had been on the cards that night, but still, every time he walked into Bobby’s kitchen, Dean would think of Cas.

He was determined not to put too much thought into the whole situation. Occasionally, however, he just couldn’t help himself, and it was during those times especially that he’d rely on the bottle to help him stop thinking.

* * *

He woke up and stayed right where he was, staring at the television until Bobby came along and switched the damn thing on. White noise. Dean left it behind, ending up at the kitchen table. While downing two cups of coffee, he eyed off the counter, waiting for something— _anything_ —to happen but knowing it wouldn’t.

It wasn’t like Cas was dead. He was up there, somewhere. Where, Dean just didn’t know. If he thought about it too hard, his head might explode. And if he didn’t think about it at all . . .

But Cas was still alive. Dean knew that much. That made three out of four, although a single glance in the mirror told him that was debatable.

He scrubbed methodically in the shower, wishing—and not for the first time—that Cas hadn’t fixed his face, because some mementos were needed to keep Dean going.

* * *

Sam had liked Bobby’s bathroom. It was well designed, he’d decided, a good size, and surprisingly clean. He never said that last part in front of Bobby, however, which was probably a good thing, as Bobby prided himself on being clean when generally he was neat at best.

There had been countless times when Dean found himself sitting on the closed toilet seat, being bandaged and stitched up by his brother. Sam, who almost always winced in sympathy, although Dean didn’t mind. It was preferable to the alternative, after all.

Other times, it had been Bobby fixing the both of them up. That, Dean enjoyed less. But nothing could ever be as bad as Sam sitting on that toilet seat, wincing as Dean patched him up, while Bobby stood to the side waiting his turn.

There had been a few occasions right after Dean had gotten out of the pit—and once or twice before—when he’d stood in the shower, shivering as the water ran from hot to cold to painful.

He hated Bobby’s bathroom. When Sam asked why, Dean told him the curtains were fugly.

Bobby had taken Sam out to pick up a few supplies one day in the dead of winter. The TV had needed fixing, leaving Dean to walk around the house in search of something to do that didn’t involve opening a book. He’d been hoping that when he said supplies, Bobby meant a new flatscreen. One with all the channels a guy could ask for, so Dean could sit back for a day and pretend the world wasn’t going to end.

That thought had gone out the window when he’d heard a muffled thump coming from the bathroom.

It had been Cas, wearing a look on his face that said _this isn’t supposed to be happening_. And he’d been right. Like an idiot, Dean had gaped at the mess, the blood that was dripping, seeping, staining the grout, the tiles, skin that had lost sight of any other colour. He’d snapped back, yelling a single syllable only when Cas stumbled. Somehow, Dean had made it just in time, wrangling two bodies until they were both on the ground, Cas with his back to the toilet, Dean on the mat. They’d looked at each other until Dean had asked, “How?”

It had been a question without much of an answer. And any attempt at first aid had been denied with a head shake. So they’d sat there in silence on the bathroom floor, waiting and waiting until the blood finally started to disappear and clothes mended themselves.

Cas had vanished without a word. Not even a thank you. He’d looked like his old self, yet his eyes had told a different story during the next few meetings. One look, and they’d been right back on the bathroom floor.

Dean could barely walk into the room anymore, but it turned out to be a necessity in life, so he had to grin and bear it until his hair was clean and bladder empty.

* * *

Three days after Stull, Dean found himself lying in the back seat of his car, blasting Metallica. There was something about _The Black Album_ that reminded him of other times. The car hummed, calming him like nothing else on Earth could, and when his ears stung from the noise, he just sat up to turn the volume that much higher. After a while, the Jack’s made his throat burn, but that didn’t stop Dean. He kept on drinking until he nearly choked from the whole stupid situation.

He finished the bottle before he finished the album. Blindly, he changed the tapes, punched the back of the chair when ‘Rock of Ages’ started, and was out the car in seconds. Screaming at the sky with an empty bottle in his hand, so fucking pissed off that the world had to know. He wasn’t even sure he was saying words, although Dean knew he yelled Cas at least once or twice. Stupidly, a part of him expected an answer.

* * *

They had never put much thought into Christmas, until it was Dean’s last and they’d figured festivity might be a good idea. A few decorations had been put up; some nog had been attempted. They’d even killed a couple of pagan gods. Like all normal families did.

But as it turned out, that Christmas hadn’t been Dean’s last. Only three months had passed since he’d dug himself out of a coffin when they again found themselves not knowing how to go about the whole Christmas song and dance but wanting to try their hardest.

Bobby had set the table as fancy as he knew how and made the nog so well that he was the only one who could drink it. But they’d made a toast anyway before digging into their steaks—the typical Christmas dinner—although Sam, recovering from a concussion, had just picked at his food. He’d been the only one to wrap any gifts, though, handing over a bottle of beer for Bobby, and Dean his old beat-up cassette of _The Black Album_.

In the middle of it all, Cas had stopped by, but before anything could be said about a seal or his old man upstairs, a chair had been pulled out and his ass dragged into it. Dean had handed him a beer, which he’d simply looked at, then politely ignored for the next twenty minutes of awkwardness while the rest of them talked about cars and tits and pointedly not seals because it was Christmas, damnit. And when things had turned obscene, Cas made his exit, causing Dean to laugh his ass off before coming to a decision:

Maybe Christmas wasn’t that bad after all.

* * *

Dean was drunk, he knew that much. In three hours or so when he woke up with his stomach twisted and tongue furry, he was going to be severely hungover and regretting every bad choice under the sun. He knew that too. But for now, the lights were blurring, a blanket was being pulled over him and Bobby was there frowning, shaking his head, calling Dean a name or two. And that was that. He was losing the room, losing Bobby. One final look around was all Dean had in him—that and a bubbling feeling that might have been close to fondness—before his eyes shut themselves and he faded, right into a familiar dream.

It wasn’t anything special, just him walking, following a path with the trees to the left of him, Cas to the right. A joke about being stuck in the middle like that Stealers Wheel song was called for, making Cas laugh. It wasn’t him, Dean realized after hearing that. It wasn’t special, this dream.

Soon enough, they came to a lake, and Dean figured _what the hell_. He tossed in a line before turning to ask, “You like fishing, Cas?”

“No.”

Dean had to laugh. “Then fuck you.” Something snagged his line, and he started to reel in as Cas watched, rapt.

And that was that. Dean woke with his stomach twisted and tongue furry, tossing his cookies in the bucket generously provided before he could figure out why that dream, why now?

After scrubbing the shit out of his mouth, he settled back down with a glass of water. He figured there was no chance in hell of falling back asleep. But twenty minutes later he slipped away, dreaming of a little frozen girl in the snow, matches burning her fingertips. Dean couldn’t save her.

* * *

Dean dreamed constantly. He always had, for as long as he could remember, some dreams good, others bad. There was one that stuck with him, where he’d been Charlie at the chocolate factory, being force-fed all the chocolate and candy a nine-year-old could hope for by Willy Wonka. Dean had woken up unsure as to whether it was a dream or nightmare, but mostly glad he hadn’t ended up on that goddamn boat ride. Sam had cried and cried during that part of the movie. Even their dad had seemed disturbed.

One night in the fall, Dean had fallen asleep on Bobby’s couch with a jacket covering his body and his arm good enough for a pillow. He’d found himself in the kitchen, looking like a penguin and hating every minute of it.

“Nice tux,” Sam had said, smirking as he watched Dean tug on his stupid bowtie. “You ready?”

“For what?”

“Dean, it’s easy. You put your hand on my shoulder, I put my hand on your waist, and then we go one-two-three.” Sam had shrugged like it was no big deal, adding, “You have to practice.”

Dean’s response had been to stare at his brother like he was fucking crazy. Thankfully, before any attempt could be made at whatever, Dean had woken up on the couch and immediately put that one in the nightmare folder. Dancing was bad enough, but Sam teaching him? That was one of the worst things Dean could ever imagine, and he’d done time. The next morning, he’d not been able to hold back, telling Sam he sucked over a strong cup of coffee.

The next night, in a hotel in the middle of Iowa with his jacket covering his body, a knife under his pillow and Sam snuffling in the bed next to him, Dean had again dreamed of Bobby’s kitchen. But instead of Sam, he’d found Cas.

“Cas.”

“Dean.”

In the pause that followed, Dean had raised an eyebrow. “Good talk. Uh, what’s up?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re not in trouble, are ya? Got a message or something?”

“No.”

“Oh.” They’d stood there like matchstick men, Cas against the counter like it was where he belonged, Dean with his thoughts racing. It took a while, but he’d landed on it eventually. “You’re not you, are you?” he asked, eliciting a smile.

It was stupid, because he’d had dreams before of Cas, where it wasn’t a visit but his idiot brain doing all kinds of crazy shit. But for some reason, he was always surprised when it turned out to not be real.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Right,” Dean had said with a grin he’d imagined looked a lot like regret. “Right.” They’d been kissing before he even knew he’d moved, because that’s just how dreams worked sometimes. He’d woken up with a sleepy smile on his face, one that stayed until his brain properly switched on and he landed smack in the middle of _holy shit_ and _what the fuck_?

It was a long while before Dean realized that it wasn’t hell, that place in between.

* * *

  
It took him five days, but finally Dean decided it was time to move on. He couldn’t sit in his own boredom and wallow in self-pity, not anymore. Sam wouldn’t have wanted him to do that. And Cas—

Well, who even knew what he wanted? If Dean drank a bit more, there was a chance he’d end up yelling at the ceiling, asking Cas exactly that. But as it was, he’d stuck to the few drinks given to him, with Bobby once or twice looking his way wearing an expression that said _no more_. So that was that. Dean was stuck not knowing.

It took all of five minutes to pack his things. Sam’s stuff was staying at Bobby’s, in the spare room with the door that squeaked badly. Maybe one day Dean would go through it all, tell himself he was picking and choosing what to keep before keeping it all. For now, he kept the door shut.

It was late and he was in no way capable of driving, so he said goodnight to Bobby with every intention of saying good morning before he left. The house fell still after Dean settled on the couch. He figured there was no way in hell he would fall asleep, but life liked to keep a few surprises up its sleeve. When he opened his eyes, he found them both in Bobby’s panic room, Cas sitting on the bed.

“Hello Dean,” he said after a long stretch of them staring at each other. “You look well.”

“I’m glad you finally figured out sarcasm.” Dean scratched at the back of his head, huffing when Cas looked honestly puzzled by his words. “I look like shit, Cas.”

“You never could.”

Dean was ready to launch a barrage of fast-slinging insults and put-downs, fucking pissed at the way Cas had left things but too chickenshit to say it to anyone but the guy—angel—his mind made up. A part of Dean also wanted to hold Cas down and kiss him because, damnit, he missed the guy (not to mention all those other reasons). But there was something in the way Cas said those three words that made Dean stop and blink.

Cas was calm, looking at Dean like he knew—everything.

“Is it you?” Dean quietly asked.

One slow nod was enough to deflate him completely. All the angry words in his mind ran away as he stared, and what followed was a sudden awareness of how wrong his body felt and where his hands were. It was like being on a first date, a feeling that only got worse when Cas smiled. A real smile, one that hadn’t been fabricated, that matched him completely.

“Did you think I was going to abandon you?”

Dean had. He really had thought that, and now he felt like an idiot. The tiniest of voices was trying to speak up in the back of his mind, reminding him it could still happen. But he couldn’t focus on that, not now. He shrugged, let out something that resembled a chuckle, and sat down close to Cas on the bed before he could think to stop himself. “I miss you,” he blurted out. Apparently, self-control no longer existed. “Shit.”

Cas didn’t have a response to that, and Dean wasn’t sure whether that was a good thing or not. He studied the ground for a while, consciously aware he was being watched. It was only when a hand touched his shoulder, and then cheek, that he found the confidence to glance back up with a rueful smile. “I’m so fucking tired, Cas.”

“I know,” Cas said, then kissed him. A real kiss, one that felt completely unlike the last few they’d shared in dreams where Dean had fabricated and wanted and known he was still alone. It was quick, surprising, but it would do. Dean came out of it warm all over, his lips tingling, tugging at the corners even as he thought about pulling away from the hand still on his cheek. In the end, however, he leaned ever so slightly into it, and Cas returned the smile. “You can rest now, Dean.”


End file.
